by Cara Elliott
“Andiamo, bella.” Marco offered her his hand.
“Yes, let’s go, ” she replied.
Chapter Twenty-three
Kate awoke with a jolt, the touch of the carriage windowpane cold as ice against her cheek. Pulling the fur-trimmed lap robe up a little higher, she angled her shoulders back to the leather squabs and closed her eyes, wondering if her body would ever recover from the bone-rattling descent from the snowy mountains. She massaged gingerly at the back of her neck. There wasn’t an inch of her that didn’t ache. Save for her feet, which were now numb with cold. The felt-wrapped bricks had long since lost their heat.
Oh, for the comforts of Cluyne Close. Her maid was right—there was something to be said for luxury.
The journey so far had been a hellish ordeal, a grueling ten days of near nonstop travel. The first leg, a rough Channel crossing over stormy waters, had been made even more unpleasant by the dank cabin reeking of urine and vomit. Marco had been seasick the entire time—hardly an auspicious start to their marriage. From there, they had rattled over rutted roads and treacherous mountain passes. Kate rubbed her bleary eyes. It had all passed in a blur of rackety coaches and dismal inns, though now she would almost welcome a musty, flea-ridden bed to stretch out on.
She slanted a look at the slumped form beside her. Only a tangle of Marco’s dark hair was visible above the lumpy blanket, but the soft rasp of his snore indicated that he had fallen into a doze. Reaching across the seat, she smoothed the heavy wool around his knees. His long legs were bent at an awkward angle in the cramped coach. No wonder he had been in no mood for conversation during the brief stop for food and a change of horses sometime after midnight.
Sighing, Kate settled back against the worn leather, trying to get comfortable. She had made her own bed, she reminded herself. And now she must sleep in it…
“Wake up.”
“Mmmm?” Her lids lifted a touch as she tried to squirm away from the shaking sensation.
“Come, open your eyes, Kate. You should not miss seeing your arrival in Vienna.”
“Vienna?” she murmured. As the word sank in, she sat up straight and scrubbed at the misted glass. “Oh, look,” she exclaimed softly, craning her neck as they rolled over the majestic stone bridge spanning the Danube River.
Kate was still wide-eyed as their coach lumbered past the Augarten, with its Baroque gardens, formal lawns, and shaded walkways. The horses made a sharp turn and then they were bumping through the narrow, twisting streets of the city center.
“That is St. Stephen’s Cathedral.” Marco pointed out the soaring limestone cathedral with its Romanesque towers and intricately patterned tile roof. “Its main bell is one of the largest in Europe and was cast out of cannons captured from the Muslim invaders in 1711.”
“Fascinating,” she murmured.
“And there is The Hofburg, the emperor’s palace,” he continued. “In Vienna it is simply called the ‘Burg.’ ”
Kate gasped. “Why, the place is as large as an ocean.”
“To my knowledge there are no sailing ships inside,” said Marco with a chuckle. “But the main courtyard was designed as a jousting field.”
She half-expected to see a battalion of armored knights come charging through the massive wrought-iron gates.
“The original structure dates from the late 1200s, but the Hapsburg rulers have added to it over the centuries. This is the medieval section, known as the Schweitzerhof. The entrance is named ‘The Gate of Virtue’—you can see the crowned Hapsburg eagle flanked by a pair of lions.”
Kate suddenly felt very provincial staring at the imposing walls. The city was an august crossroads of history, a place where East had met West since the dawn of civilization. With his noble bloodlines, Marco shared a common bond with its rich cultural heritage. While she was reminded once again that she was an outsider.
A nobody, really. No real roots. No real family. No real identity.
She had never felt so alone.
After turning onto the busy Kartnerstrasse, Marco rapped on the trap and called out an address to the coachman. The horses turned down a narrow cobbled side street and came to a halt in front of a small café.
“Wait here,” he said. “It’s almost impossible to find rooms in the city, what with half of Europe here for the conference,” said Marco. “But Lynsley said that somehow he would manage to get word to one of his operatives. Let us hope he has worked his usual magic.”
“He would need some special spell to give his messenger wings. Otherwise, I don’t know how anyone could arrive quicker than we did.” Kate stifled a yawn. “Lud, I could sleep on the cobblestones and wouldn’t care.”
Marco winced as he unfolded his legs. “I hope that the accommodations are better than that.”
They were. But only barely.
Lynsley’s contact was expecting them and had arranged for lodging on a nearby street. Kate followed behind as he led the way up a darkened stairwell and unlocked a garret apartment. The candlelight showed a set of small rooms that were cramped but comfortable.
“Sorry, but it was the best I could do under the circumstances. The city is overflowing with visitors,” said their contact. “I’ve arranged for a maid and valet, and will have them start tomorrow morning. They each have a small room on the floor below.”
“I’ve stayed in far worse,” said Marco dryly. “We shall make do for now.”
“I shall help you bring up your trunks. After that, you won’t see me again.” Kate saw the man quickly pass a packet of papers to Marco. “You’ll be dealing with someone else. I imagine the details of making contact are spelled out in one of these sealed letters.”
Marco nodded. “I shall be back shortly, Kate.”
Spotting a pitcher and washbasin atop a painted chest of drawers, Kate splashed some cold water on her face and then kicked off her shoes and stretched out on the bed. She wiggled her toes, blissfully thankful for the dreamy comfort of the eiderdown coverlet and plump pillows.
Lud, she was sure she would sleep for a week…
“Sorry, but we have no time to lose.” The mattress shivered as Marco sat down on the edge of the bed. “We have invitations to attend the Duchess of Sagan’s salon tonight. It’s a regular gathering place for many of the most influential people in town, so we’d best go and see and be seen.”
“Right.” Kate scrubbed at her eyes, nodded mechanically. “Sagan,” she mused, thinking over the background information she had studied during the long journey from England. “The duchess is rumored to be Prince Metternich’s mistress, is she not?” The Austrian foreign minister was in charge of the conference. He was also a notorious womanizer.
“Yes,” he replied. “As is Princess Bagration, the lovely widow of a Russian hero who fell at the battle of Borodino. The princess is also quartered at the Palm Palace, where she entertains the elite with her parties. The two ladies are great rivals, and there is no love lost between them. It is said to be amusing to watch the different dignitaries arrive and choose which stairs to take.”
Kate leaned in to touch the dark stubbling on his jaw. “You had better shave.”
He flinched ever so slightly. “Oh, I shall manage without cutting my throat,” he joked. “I don’t need assistance in dressing. But I am sorry that you must fend for yourself tonight.”
Though she longed for a hot bath and a chance to stretch her stiff muscles, she shrugged. “I am fine.”
A tight smile tweaked his lips. “You have real bottom, Kate. Most females would be complaining bitterly at all the discomforts of the journey.”
“I’m used to it,” she replied. “I have endured many uncomfortable moments aboard a ship. There was the sudden storm where we nearly sank off the coast of Turkey, and the time the Barbary pirates chased us through the Straits of Gibraltar…” She let her words trail off. “But we must think of the present, not the past.”
His expression was inscrutable. “Correct,” he said in a clipped tone. “We have a
job to do.”
A job, she repeated to herself. She must not forget that this was just another job for him.
“Congratulations on your nuptials, Lord Ghiradelli.” Prince Klemens von Metternich observed Kate with an appreciative gaze. “Your taste for beautiful women is well-known, so it’s no surprise that your bride is an English Diamond of the First Water.”
Marco took a sip of champagne to keep from snapping a warning to keep his hands—and his ogling eyes—aimed elsewhere. The Austrian foreign minister’s reputation as a rake was legendary.
“Yes, she is a rare jewel,” agreed Marco softly.
Seeming to read his thoughts, Metternich chuckled. “And you intend to guard your treasure carefully?” A well-groomed brow waggled. “Then you have come to the wrong city for your wedding trip. Vienna is a city of sybaritic pleasures, especially now. The sovereigns and diplomats of Europe have come here to make love as well as to make peace.”
Marco quaffed another swallow of wine.
“Territories will be traded, borders shifted,” added Metternich with a sly smile. “It is all part of the game.”
“Of course,” answered Marco with a careless shrug. He must remember to play along with the other rakes and roués, no matter that his first impulse was to bloody the prince’s aristocratic nose. So much for peace and harmony.
“I have no intention of initiating hostilities over a trifling trespass of boundaries,” he finished.
“Excellent. I see you already have a good grasp of basic diplomacy. I am sure you will have no trouble in learning all the nuances.” Spotting the Duchess of Sagan across the room, Metternich gave a graceful bow. “Excuse me. I must go greet our hostess. You are, of course, invited to the Emperor’s ball tomorrow evening at the Spanish Riding School,” he added, along with a lazy wink. “And naturally, so is your wife.”
Taking up a fresh glass of wine, Marco moved through the crowd, trying to quell his irritation. Myriad candles glittered in the crystal chandeliers, the smoke adding a dark undertone to the lush perfumes and spicy colognes swirling through the fleshy air. Gleaming jewelry, swooshing silks, predatory smiles—the room reeked of wealth. Of privilege. Of sex.
Suddenly feeling that he couldn’t breathe, Marco stepped into a shadowed nook and tried to clear his lungs.
“What brings you to Vienna, Il Serpenti?”
Marco looked around to find that an old crony from Milan had sidled up beside him.
“Pleasure?” continued Nacchioni as he brushed a bit of Ostrava caviar from his mustache. “If your snake is looking for a nice warm hole, you’ve come to the right city.” He waved his ivory spoon at the crush of colorful plumage, artfully arranged to show off every provocative detail of the feminine form. “Take your choice. The ladies are open to any suggestion.”
Fisting his glass, Marco replied, “Interesting.”
His erstwhile friend gave a slurred smile. “You have no idea how interesting. The problem is deciding which one to swive for the night.” A flash of teeth gleamed in the flare of the wall scone. “Though sometimes you can simply take two.”
Covering his disgust with a harsh laugh, Marco drained the rest of his drink. He felt dirty and depressed by the conversation. Had he really sounded as disgusting as that when his own wits were sloshed in brandy and lust?
The answer did not lighten his mood.
“Oh, look, here is Talleyrand,” said his friend, pointing to an elegant Frenchman, resplendent in the sumptuous satin, lace, and velvet formality of the last century. “You know what Napoleon called him? Shit in silk stockings.”
As the legendary foreign minister from Paris kissed the hand of a buxom blonde, Nacchioni guffawed. “Mathilde is casting out her lures in the wrong waters. She’ll never land such a big fish as Talleyrand. He is only here to keep an eye on whom Metternich and Humboldt are speaking with. For warming his old bones, he has the Countess of Sagan’s delectable younger sister, Dorothee de Talleyrand-Perigord.”
Marco thought for a moment, trying to remember the dizzying list of names he had studied. It seemed as if every titled lady and gentleman in Europe, from exalted sovereign to local landesknecht, had come to Vienna.
“She is the widow of Talleyrand’s nephew and has come here to serve as her uncle’s official hostess.” His friend’s smirk stretched wider. “Though her other duties no doubt included offering herself on a silver platter.”
Sick of the lewd remarks, Marco set his empty glass on a bust of Venus. “Excuse me. I must go find my wife.”
“Wife!” Nacchioni dissolved in sputtering mirth. “Santa Cielo, you must be joking.”
Marco didn’t reply. Stalking away, he searched the side parlor for a sight of Kate.
Up to this moment, he hadn’t realized just how difficult the mission was going to be. Oh, his brain had comprehended the assignment and its challenges well enough. But the full force of its emotional impact had not hit home until now. He felt as if he had been punched in the gut.
With a sickening lurch, he paused and leaned a shoulder to the carved corner molding, listening to the clinking crystal, the seductive laughter, the polished lies. Deceit and deception whispered in every flutter of the tailored finery. This was his world, not Kate’s, and he suddenly loathed himself for exposing her to such debauched dissolution. Like the waves and wind of the open ocean, she was unpolluted by the drawing room perversions.
Her scent was sun-kissed citrus and fresh-cut herbs. In contrast, the cloying perfumes and oily colognes seemed to clog his nostrils, making it hard to move his lungs.
“Ah, there you are.” The light sweetness of neroli and wild thyme was like a breath of fresh air. “I thought I’d lost you,” murmured Kate.
Forcing a deep inhale, Marco reminded himself that he couldn’t give way to sentiment. He must guard Kate as best he could. Later, there would be time to sort through his conflicted emotions.
“I was just making a survey of the surroundings,” he replied. “And greeting a few old friends.”
“I imagine you are acquainted with quite a few of the guests.”
“Yes,” he said tightly.
Kate’s expression was unreadable. “Well, that will certainly make our job easier.”
He didn’t reply right away. Across the room he saw a trio of men observing Kate with sharp, speculative gazes. And no wonder. She was wearing a low-cut gown of twilight-blue silk. The deep, smoky hue accentuated the golden highlights of her hair and creamy color of her bare arms, while the simple styling set off her shapely bosom and slender waist.
One of the oglers said something and the others leered.
Gritting back an oath, Marco took her arm a little roughly and turned for the main salon. “I need a drink,” he growled.
Kate’s lips thinned but she said nothing.
Grabbing two glasses of champagne from a passing footman, he passed one to her and took a quick gulp of wine. “Enjoying the evening?” he asked, once the liquid had loosened his throat. A friend of Kate’s grandfather, a senior member of the English delegation, had spotted her earlier and insisted on introducing her to his wife.
“It is different from London,” replied Kate thoughtfully. “Lady Repton was talking with her friends about the shocking boldness of the ladies here. The Countess of Sagan is called the ‘Cleopatra of the North,’ and her rival, Princess Bagration, is known as the ‘beautiful naked angel,’ as she wears only low-cut white dresses made out of thin India muslin.”
She ran a finger along the rim of the faceted crystal. “And then there is Anna Protassoff, who supposedly served as the ‘tester’ for the guardsmen whom Catherine the Great chose for her bedroom.” She made a wry face. “I confess, I can’t help but admire such boldness in flaunting their individuality. No one can accuse them of being boring pattern cards of propriety.”
Marco took another swallow of champagne.
Seemingly oblivious to his brooding, Kate continued to share what she had heard from the London contingent. “Bot
h ladies are reputed to have slept with Prince Metternich. Of late, however, the Tsar of Russia is said to be pursuing the princess.”
“Alexander chases anyone wearing skirts,” muttered Marco.
“Isn’t that rather like the pot calling the kettle black?” she remarked dryly.
He quelled the urge to crush the glass in his fist.
“Everyone is betting on how long it will take for him to slip between her sheets,” she went on. “The men are equally outrageous. Lord Stewart of the English delegation has been dubbed ‘Lord Pumpernickel’ for his bright yellow boots and his penchant for instigating drunken brawls. The King of Denmark is smitten with a flower girl…” Kate shook her head. “How is anything serious supposed to be accomplished here when it seems that all people are thinking about is drinking, dining, and swiving?”
“That is not our problem,” snapped Marco. He tugged at the knot of his cravat, impatient to escape the overheated rooms. “I trust that you haven’t forgotten that our reason for being here is to spot a certain face.”
“I’m well aware of our duty,” she answered coolly. “When I see him, you will be the first to know.”
Any further exchange of sarcasm was silenced by the approach of the English diplomat and his wife.
“Congratulations on your recent nuptials, Lord Ghiradelli,” said Repton politely. “Miss Woodbridge—that is, Lady Ghiradelli—was just telling us how romantic it was that you suggested Vienna for a wedding trip.”
“Romantic, indeed,” echoed his wife. “I can’t imagine a more perfect place to celebrate. The city is known for its dancing and dining. And the opulence of the parties puts London to blush.”
“Opulence is not the only reason for blushes,” commented Repton. “The Continentals are gluttons for pleasure in any form—” He cut off his words with a grimace. “No offense meant, Ghiradelli.”
“None taken,” replied Marco.
“You must be sure to come around to Lord Castlereagh’s quarters on the Minoritenplatz,” piped up his wife. “Lady Emily holds a weekly soiree every Tuesday evening.”
